


As Many as Stars in the Sky

by Vehemently



Category: Die unendliche Geschichte | The Neverending Story - Michael Ende
Genre: Gen, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-09
Updated: 2007-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1637600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vehemently/pseuds/Vehemently
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And now at last is the time for that other story. Come here, child, sit quietly, and listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Many as Stars in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the Ralph Manheim translation; the original is in German (which I can't read), in which the proper names may be a bit different. Thanks to Cofax for a lookthrough.
> 
> Written for whetherwoman

 

 

My child, always you ask for another story, another story, as if we grownups have no other purpose! I have hides to clean, and there's a leak in the tent roof that spills rain into the fire, and heaps and heaps of purple wool to card and spin and weave into your winter clothing! Just one more then, before you close your eyes and go to sleep for true this time, and in the morning we shall see what other stories I can think of. Draw in close, child, so that all the world may listen.

There once was a people called Laika, that filled the woodlands between the Silver Mountains and the Ivory Tower. They were tall and thin and knobby, and didn't speak to strangers, so that if you were to wander into their home they might stand still and let you mistake them for saplings. They loved to rustle and whisper amongst themselves when you weren't looking. The queen of the Laika was Laurel, a lovely golden creature.

Laurel was a young queen, burled with the swell of her first child at the time that the Savior came into Fantastica, but of course she knew nothing of that. All she could say was that her people were greening and plump with rain, and the forests alive with new creatures traveling to and fro. But the Laika did not travel, and they didn't speak to strangers, so they knew nothing of the search for the Savior, and how he came to the silver city of Amarganth. They rustled about in their own home eagerly awaiting the spring, when the birds would come and nest on Laika shoulders.

But it was not a bird that came to the Laika woodlands, not at all. Do you know what it was? I think you do know.

It was the dragon Smerg, as is told of in the stories. It had the hind legs of a cricket and the head of a crocodile, and great wings of slime that it stretched over the land. And on its breath was the cold fire of its homeland, that turned living things to stone. It swooped down into the forest one day and plucked a woman off her palfrey in the middle of a clearing. That woman was Oglamar, who was later rescued from Ragar Castle, so she was all right, you see -- but it was worse for the Laika.

Laurel was sitting by a rain-pool at the moment the dragon attacked, wondering about the future of her child, and so was missed by Smerg's freezing breath. But all of her people, from first bud to last flowering branch, were turned to stone at a moment. And so they stood in the wood, their fresh green faces gone gray, keeping still even when you _weren't_ looking. And that was how Laurel found them, when she returned from her scrying pool: statues like saplings, and not a Laika in the world but herself.

And what is a queen without her people? She sat among the stone trees and wept, and wept, until her grief became a river. It flowed swift and hot down toward the Sea of Longing, and on the banks of that chuckling brook she lay down and delivered herself of her child.

It was a very tiny thing, as small as ever you could think of, a gray-green bud of new by the side of the river. Laurel the queen looked at the landscape around her, that was stone and silence in all directions, and set about making a river-boat. It was grass and twigs, daubed with mud from the river, and she built it for three days and three nights while the tiny child grew and stretched and gained a healthy green hue in her face. And when that river-boat was done, Laurel set her only child into it and set it on the river, calling:

"This my child will live beyond me, and make a forest many times wider than I have ever known. She will gather around her a thousand thousand people, and her name is Walnutshell."

Laurel let that river-boat go down the river of her own making, and then wept for seven more days and nights, just to make sure that Walnutshell would not run out of river to float on, and at the end of seven days she died.

I know, I'm sorry, I don't mean to tell only sad stories. It gets better, I promise.

I left off with the child-queen Walnutshell in her tiny riverboat, which was like a little brown cup bearing her down the river of her mother's tears. But she was still a tiny baby, and knew nothing of the world. She might have floated all the way down the river into the Sea, and be lost to all the stories of the land, except for Hero Hynreck. You know who he is, don't you? Of course you do.

He had just begun his quest to rescue Oglamar, and was soon to pass across the Sea of Longing, into the Land of Cold Fire, and all the way to Wodgabay, where the dragon had its refuge. But first, he had to step over a chuckling brook. And when he did so, what do you think he saw?

Yes, of course, he saw Walnutshell, in her tiny boat, floating slowly like an idly-thrown twig on the water. The little cup that held the child twirled and rocked, until a child like you, dear, would soon become dizzy and start to cry, but Walnutshell knew nothing else, and was comforted. It was only when Hynreck plucked her boat out of the water, and set it onto solid dry land, that Walnutshell cried out.

But Hynreck had no time for crying babies; he was on a quest, and anyway Oglamar was in terrible captivity in Ragar Castle, and you know how that story goes. He left the child behind, not meanly, but not with too much thought, wedging her little brown boat at the entrance of a badger's sett before heading out on his way. And truly, if anyone could raise a foundling child, it would be a badger.

But nobody lived in that sett, or indeed in that whole land, and Walnutshell was alone. Well! She might cry and cry, and nobody would come to comfort her, and though the brook chuckled and cajoled, now she was on dry land and could not be rocked to sleep. So after quite a lot of crying, Walnutshell came to the conclusion that she would have to comfort herself: and that is exactly what she did.

She rolled out of her little brown boat and searched about on the grass. It was a fine place Hero Hynreck had left her, with dry warmth underground in the empty sett, and warm, sunny hills, and the brook ever-cheerful, and dew on the grass for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And so, though Walnutshell had nobody to comfort her, she throve in her new home. Her first word was a name for that land, which she called Woldalone.

You know how children grow, don't you? Always with their legs too long for their trousers, and feet poking out the ends of their moccasins -- yes you, child. That's how Walnutshell grew, day after day, till several years had passed, and she was as tall as anything. Her hair was rich with spear-shaped leaves, and her skin dark and grainy, and she knew Woldalone in daylight and starlight, summer or winter or fall, every dale and clover-leaf. But Walnutshell was lonely.

One day she heard a weird buzz about her head, and was amazed to see a small flying creature, black and yellow striped, hovering in front of her face. "Good morning!" he piped, in his high, tiny voice. "My name is Broxiblox. Are there many flowers in this place?"

Walnutshell, of course, had never seen anything like him. Broxiblox was a bee-thorn, which is a creature just like the bees in the fields, that sip the nectar from flowers, but bee-thorns live among rose-bushes, and grow thorns instead of stingers, and when a thorn is fully grown, they take it off themselves and glue it to a rose-branch. That's why roses have thorns, didn't you know that?

Well, Walnutshell had no flowers herself, but she did know there were rose-bushes on the northern edges of Woldalone. She pointed carefully with one knobby finger, and Broxiblox warbled, "Thanks!" and zipped away without waiting to hear her speak. She had no practice at speaking anyway, except to herself, and that is no kind of conversation. But she was disappointed all the same.

It was a comfort to see that the rose-bushes in the north throve under Broxiblox's attention, and grew more and more into Woldalone, but rose-bushes don't talk, you see, and Walnutshell was too shy to interrupt the busy bee-thorn. She cleared bracken from the northern lanes, and set down good mulch at the rose-bushes' roots, and they flourished ever southward. Walnutshell liked to walk among them and admire their flowers, for she had none herself.

"Doing well, doing well," Broxiblox told her one day, as he hurried past from one blossom to the next. "We shall have honey for winter, yes. You... wouldn't happen to like honey?"

But Walnutshell had lived all her life in Woldalone, and did not know what honey was. She was too shy to answer.

"Honey's my game, yes. The flowers give me their nectar and I make honey of it, and they go on and bear their children. Excellent arrangement!" Broxiblox rummaged in his little bee-waistcoat, which went all the way down to his knees and provided the black stripes that offset his yellow color. He pulled out from a pocket a tiny pocketwatch on a golden filigree chain, and showed it to Walnutshell. "Here, look, my lady: the times of a bee-thorn's life!"

Walnutshell was quite a bit larger than he, and felt terribly clumsy. But Broxiblox would not be put aside, and with a deep mahogany blush, at last she grasped the miniscule watch between the points of two leaves. She was amazed to see its burnished gold cover, and more amazed when Broxiblox popped it open and showed her the inside, which was brassworks and wheels and one long hand that swept majestically around a circular face marked with four pictures. While she watched, that hand came to a rest on a symbol like a rose in bloom -- and that was exactly what it was!

"Flowers, rosehips, longsleep, greenshoots: and then back to flowers, yes. Excellent arrangement!" Broxiblox took back his pocketwatch and re-settled it in his waistcoat. Walnutshell had no flowers herself, and smiled at him sadly. But the bee-thorn was ever-busy, and returned to his labor among the fragrant petals.

For weeks he worked, and on days when Walnutshell walked among the rose-bushes, he would always take a moment to say hello to her. She was too shy to answer. And that was how the time passed, until the petals fell and the rosehips swelled, exactly as marked in the bee-thorn's pocketwatch. The weather grew colder, and Broxiblox came less and less among the rose-bushes, and Walnutshell felt that she was alone again.

It was in the deepest part of winter, when everything is brown and snow puts the world to sleep, that another stranger came to Woldalone. Walnutshell had been standing very still by the brook, dreaming of warmth and the return of her friend, with snow in her hair and settled comfortably on her shoulders. But she opened her eyes at a curious squeaky crunching noise, and saw a line of prints in the snow, one-two one-two. She didn't know those were footprints, of course, because she didn't know anybody who walked except for herself. But they _were_ footprints, and the feet who had made them came to stand directly in front of her.

They were feet inside leather moccasins, and legs covered with leather trousers, and above that was a cloak made from purple buffalo hide, and a green face and, a lot of long blue-black hair. It was Atreyu, of course, who had gone on a Great Quest for the Childlike Empress, and brought the Savior, and done a great many other things that Walnutshell knew nothing about.

Hush, yes, of course it's me, but it's a story, so I can't speak of myself as I-did-this and I-did-that. This is _her_ story, and I am not much of a character in it.

I say, it was Atreyu, and he had been gone many years from his home in the Grassy Ocean, and was grown nearly to man-size. He still carried his bow across his back and a quiver at his hip. He was on his way home, in fact, because he had been all over Fantastica, but had not yet come back to see what new stories would happen to his own people. But Walnutshell knew nothing about this. She saw only that it was a green face, and wondered whether she was looking at a long-lost cousin.

It seemed possible to speak to kin, much more possible than even to her friend the bee-thorn. She asked slowly, "Are you Laika like me?"

"I am Atreyu," said Atreyu, but he had traveled far and understood a great many things by now. "That means, Son-of-all. So, in a way, yes, I am like you. Have you no other family?"

Walnutshell did not need to say anything to tell her tale of loneliness; it was on her face for anyone to see it.

"What is your story?" he asked, because we all know what Atreyu's task is: stories. That is how you know that I will always have another story for you at bedtime, child, because I promised it to Bastian, and Atreyu keeps his promises.

But Walnutshell did not know how to tell of the cold fire and her mother's sorrow, of her journey down the creek in a tiny brown cup of a boat, of being plucked from the creek and left at the empty sett, of naming Woldalone and walking its every corner. She could not even say the name of her only friend, Broxiblox. The word stuck in her throat from shyness. All she could think to say was:

"I am an empty Walnutshell."

"That's a lonely business," said Atreyu, and after all, he knew a bit about loneliness. "Shall we change that?"

Walnutshell wanted it so badly she could not say so, only nod her head till her hair clacked like drumsticks.

"I think your name should not be Walnutshell any more," said Atreyu. "I think you can be more meat than shell. Call yourself Walnut, and in the spring, I think you will make flowers."

"Flowers?" Walnutshell gasped. Without knowing it, Atreyu was making her dearest wish come true.

"Yes, flowers," he said, and sweet syrupy tears ran down her cheeks. "And if there are any bees about --"

"Oh yes," interrupted Walnutshell. " _Yes!_ "

"--then your flowers will give rise to nut-meats in shells, and those nut-meats will fall and crack open their shells and take root in the earth, and grow, and soon the land will be full of your friends. Walnut, will you do this?"

"Yes," said Walnut, and with great solemnity she shook Atreyu's hand, very careful not to give him splinters. Atreyu went away after that, because he had other stories to attend to.

And what they'd spoken of was indeed what occurred. In the spring, Walnut for the first time had flowers herself, hanging from her hair and on the ends of her fingertips. They were meeker flowers than anything the rose-bushes could make, small and green, but you can imagine the delight with which she showed them to her friend Broxiblox, when he awoke from his winter slumber.

"Excellent arrangement!" he cried, and buzzed three times around her head in his enthusiasm.

"Th-th-th-th," mumbled Walnut, and blurted: "-ank you!" And those were the very first words she ever spoke to Broxiblox, but they were far from the last. So many things to plan for! Walnut walked the dales of Woldalone, planning where each of her friends might like to live. In the fall, when the first crop of walnuts grew hard and fell to the ground, the bee-thorn sent word to Gadow the stone-beaked finch, who came and helped break the shells, so that the walnuts could take root and grow, as Atreyu had told.

And today, child, if you travel out of the Grassy Ocean and beyond the Silver Mountains, you will find a land that we call Woldfull, now, because it's not empty any longer. Woldfull is a great forest of walnut trees, so great you cannot cross it in a single day, and rose-bushes in the clearings between trees. Bee-thorns live there, and stone-beaked finches, and many other creatures besides, all so talkative that the wood is a constant clack and clatter of noise. And so Laurel the Laika queen's prophecy came true, and Walnut has around her a thousand thousand people to talk to. A traveler is never alone, in Woldfull, and he goes on his journey with so many new ideas buzzing in his head that he might invent a city just by thinking it!

That really did happen once, not too long ago, when Broxiblox told a peculiar traveler about a dream he'd had. It was... but you, child, who are reading this, **YOU** , child, who are reading this, darting back away from that screen-panel as if I've shocked you, only you know how _that_ story ends.

 


End file.
